


An Awkward Moment

by CanonCannon



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Drunk Sex, Dubious Consent - Alcohol, M/M, Memory Loss, Morning After, One Shot, unhealthy view of sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-09
Updated: 2017-02-09
Packaged: 2018-09-23 02:08:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,690
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9636206
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CanonCannon/pseuds/CanonCannon
Summary: Daryl’s eyes catch for a moment on the empty bottle of cider sitting on its side by the bed. He’d drank it all himself, using the excuse that the smaller man was already far too drunk to share it. Truthfully he’d just been enjoying the warmth of the buzz and the soft cloud of forgetfulness that had enveloped him.“So. I’m naked under here,” Paul says suddenly, his face flushed a deep scarlet.Yeah. Daryl had pieced that together already.Note to readers: dubious consent due to alcohol use. DO NOT read if you would rather avoid such themes.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [AJWmagickl](https://archiveofourown.org/users/AJWmagickl/gifts).



> I'm also over at canoncannon.tumblr.com.
> 
> Thanks AJWmagickl for being a generally awesome fandom buddy <3
> 
>  
> 
> Note that in addition to dubious consent, this fic contains a brief slur directed at sex workers/addicts.

At first pain and thirst are all that registers, and for a moment before he opens his eyes Daryl believes he is back in his cell at the Sanctuary, perhaps sleeping off another beating in the short moments between blaring renditions of Easy Street.

The next sound he hears isn’t quite as unwelcome as that shitty song, but it jolts him awake and sends his heart spiraling unpleasantly up his windpipe in much the same fashion.

“Daryl? You awake?”

Eyes snapping open, Daryl jerks his head towards the speaker before he can consider his headache. Swimming in pain, he squints at the man beside him in utter incomprehension.

Jesus.

 _Jesus_.

Paul Rovia is in bed with him.

Or, more accurately, he’s in bed with Paul, because wherever they are, it is definitely not the room Daryl is supposed to be sharing with Carl in the guest house at the edge of the Kingdom.

“Hi,” Hilltop’s little ninja scout whispers, sounding cautious. He looks as rough as Daryl feels, crystal eyes stained red and long hair wild on the pillow.

The hunter notices impassively that Paul doesn’t seem to be wearing a shirt. The blanket they’re sharing—fucking hell—rests just below Paul’s nipples.

Daryl then notices, a lot less impassively, that _he_ isn’t wearing a shirt, either. He jerks the blanket up to his chin protectively.

The two men stare at each other for a long, awkward moment before Paul breaks the silence.

“Uh… how much do you remember?”

—

_Ezekiel was a nutjob. Guy kept a tiger as a pet, which went beyond ridiculous in Daryl’s book; it was obscene. Animals that wild couldn’t be tamed. At some point Shiva was going to remember that she wasn’t a meek little pussycat and Ezekiel would have the rare honor of being ripped to shreds by something other than a walker. And good riddance._

_The so-called king insisted on throwing some kind of royal feast for his “honored guests,” which turned out to be a glorified potluck in the house he’d assigned them._

_At least the tiger wasn’t invited._

_Daryl sat sullenly in a corner, rolling his eyes at Ezekiel’s fake accent and wondering how the fuck Carol had been taken in by such a conman._

_The food was plentiful, but Daryl still couldn’t seem to stomach much. Mostly he filled up on the sweet homemade apple cider._

—

“Remember the party…” Daryl replies slowly, already knowing that Paul doesn’t give a shit about that part of the evening.

The younger man says with a huff, “Yeah, me too. Mostly the booze. That cider was, um, deceptively strong, right?”

—

_“Son of a bitch,” Paul cursed as he thwacked his shin on a table. The party was winding down, Tara and Rosita already spreading out to sleep on the couches in the living room, and the scout was clearly trying to stumble towards the door to wherever he was sleeping for the night._

_Daryl smiled, watching him, not at all sure why he was smiling. Something about seeing the other man so unwound was amusing. Jesus was usually well-spoken, zen, and graceful, even when he was throwing himself around doing crazy ninja shit._

_Just then, though, he was none of those things. Daryl exchanged a smirk with Rosita and drained the last of the cider in his glass before starting towards the stairs, only to be stopped again when he heard a small crash behind him and a muffled, “Motherfucker!”_

_Paul had knocked over a coatrack. It thudded harmlessly to the carpet._

_“Ok, I’m walking him back,” Rosita said, starting to get up._

_“I got him,” Daryl interrupted quickly, even though he wasn’t too sturdy on his feet himself. He trusted Paul, but he didn’t want Rosita walking back alone so late at night when this new community was still such an unknown quantity to them. “C’mon, man, let’s get your drunk ass back to your room.”_

_Daryl grabbed the last bottle of cider impulsively, then took Paul’s elbow and led him to the door._

—

Cringing, Daryl peers over at Paul again. The scout meets his eyes and swallows. The sound seems oddly loud between them.

Daryl’s eyes catch for a moment on the empty bottle of cider sitting on its side by the bed. He’d drank it all himself, using the excuse that the smaller man was already far too drunk to share it. Truthfully he’d just been enjoying the warmth of the buzz and the soft cloud of forgetfulness that had enveloped him.

“So. I’m naked under here,” Paul says suddenly, his face flushed a deep scarlet.

Yeah. Daryl had pieced that together already.

—

_In Daryl’s mind, the rest of the night only existed in hazy flashes._

_Paul kissed him first—at least Daryl was pretty sure that’s how it went._ _The hunter definitely remembered being shoved against a door with an eager tongue questing down his throat. A hand pushing up his shirt, tweaking a nipple as their lips collided again and again. Daryl growling low and jerking Paul’s hips against his own, his large hands wrapping around the other man’s narrow hips._

_Christ, they had still been in the hallway at that point. Anyone could have seen them. Hell, people probably did—it wasn’t that late, and they hadn’t exactly been quiet._

_Was that even the first time they’d kissed? He had a niggling feeling they kissed outdoors, too, but he couldn’t swear to it._

_At some point later they’d made it into the classroom-turned-bedroom and stripped each other bare in seconds. Daryl hadn’t even spared a thought for his scarred back._

_No, he was too busy dropping immediately to his knees like some kind of desperate crackwhore._

_His brain had done him the dubious favor of remembering most of the messy, frantic blowjob that followed. He'd only given head a few times before in his life, mostly in his twenties, yet Paul had been appreciative and very vocal. Shocked, too. Daryl remembered his soft gasp. He remembered small hands twisting in his hair as he worked to suppress his gag reflex._

_He vividly remembered how he’d felt utterly at peace with a cock pounding down his throat, in a way that disturbed the hell out of him in retrospect. It was one reason he avoided sexual entanglements. He couldn’t just get his dick wet--sex messed with his mind, too._

_Paul’s orgasm was a blur, but Daryl definitely recalled the feeling of Paul licking his own come from where it had spilled down Daryl’s chin._

_And then Paul had passed out, leaving Daryl to jerk himself off into his crumpled boxers before crashing beside the younger man on the worn mattress._

—

All of a sudden Paul stands up and walks completely nude towards a pile of discarded clothing on the floor.

“Fuck! Warn a guy!” Daryl splutters, averting his eyes as he snaps out of his memories.

“No offense, but from what I remember you got up close and personal with all of this,” Paul waves his hand vaguely over his body, “last night. So. Can it.” He hefts a large canteen to his lips for several pulls, then tosses it to Daryl.

Daryl grunts gratefully, draining the water. He can’t even look in Paul’s direction as the other man stands openly on display, leaning against an old desk near the corner.

“I didn’t even get you off, did I? I passed out on you,” the scout says sheepishly, like _that’s_ the unfortunate part of their drunken debauchery. “Sorry.”

“Nah, look, I ain’t…” Daryl trails off, because what can he say? That he isn’t gay? Paul would laugh in his face. He'd choked himself on the man's dick mere hours earlier.

A moment later their awkward morning gets even worse. There’s a loud banging on the door.

“Jesus. Jesus, are you in there?”

“Tara?” Paul says sharply, hurrying into a pair of boxers. Daryl begins hunting for his clothes, forgetting to even worry about Paul’s eyes on his naked body. Tara sounds scared. She might need help.

“Daryl never came back last night.” Paul and Daryl both freeze. “Rick’s asking about him at the gate, everyone else is walking a different area inside the fences. Do you know anywhere else he might have gone? We think you were the last one to see him.”

Daryl buries his face in his hand for a moment before glancing up at Paul. The scout just looks at him helplessly, arms held open in a question: how the hell were they going to get out of this?

Closing his eyes in defeat, Daryl finishes pulling on his jeans over his bare skin and walks to the closed door. “Tell ‘em they can stand down, Tara. Just crashed here—I was too drunk to make it back last night.”

“Daryl,” his friend breathes out in relief. “God, Daryl, we’ve only been looking for half an hour and Rick is already going crazy. Are you ok? You sound… I’m coming in.” The doorknob starts to turn.

“No!” he and Paul both exclaim in unison.

It's instinct.

It gives the whole game away.

“Oh. Oh my God. Holy shit, holy… holy SHIT. Ok, you two, uh, you... yeah, I’m gonna go. I’ll tell them you’re ok, and then… holy shit. I'm just... gonna...” They hear her walk away down the hall.

Palms pressing into his eye sockets, Daryl tries not to think about exactly what Tara's going to say when she finds the others. Only fair to warn Paul what's coming, though. “Jesus fucking Christ, she’s gonna tell everybody, man. She ain’t exactly discreet.” He laughs a bit hysterically.

Paul smiles wanly. “I’m too hungover to even think of a joke about Jesus and fucking right now.” He pauses, tilting his head to one side. “So…  if they’ll be busy gossiping about us, you think we have time for me to return the favor?” Seeing Daryl's blank face, he adds, “Handjob, I mean. Or something. I want to.”

Daryl narrows his eyes, but Paul clearly isn’t joking—in fact, he’s stalking closer. The hunter hesitates, nerves tingling, but ultimately nods. “Ah, fuck it. Might as well.”

**Author's Note:**

> *sips tea*


End file.
